


Bridging the Ford

by Island_of_Reil



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Sex, Ethuverazheise Stroke Books, M/M, Sexual Humor, Social Awkwardness, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M, What Csevet Did On His Summer Vacation, Wistful Ending, tongues battling for dominance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 15:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11580879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: Intimacy with Kozha Reshema is a very appealing prospect to Csevet indeed. Unfortunately it’s a package deal that includes Pazhis Nethenel.





	Bridging the Ford

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DachOsmin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/gifts).



> Enjoy, Dach! :)

The heavy sweetness floating on the air struck Csevet almost bodily as he emerged from the airship hatch. He paused a moment atop the spiral iron staircase to gaze out over the meadows of Thu-Tetar. Even so late in the spring, with summer’s wilting heat arriving, their flowers painted them a dizzying array of colors. Through these fields and beneath the span of the nearby bridge ran the bright blue ribbon of the Tetara, stately and peaceful.

“Are you all right, Mer Aisava?” the airship’s captain asked politely, his ears a bit low.

“Yes. We apologize, we did not mean to delay you. We merely wished to take in the view.”

The captain looked relieved. “It is fine, Mer Aisava,” he said with a smile. “We hope you enjoy your stay at the Nethen Ford.”

Csevet smiled back at him. He was far more accustomed to hearing _Shift thine arse, courier boy, art holding us up_ from airship crew members. Granted, it had been months since he had heard such words, but after so many years of them he supposed it would take him time to grow used to the more respectful farewells. No hardship, that. He hefted his satchel containing his clothes, his old but cleaned traveling boots, and the letter over his shoulder, then stepped lightly down the staircase in his grey summer silks and elegant white shoes. Likely he would be the most stylishly clad courier Count Nethenel had ever received.

Captain Volsharezh would normally have sent an ordinary courier south — and, given the standing of the Nethenada in Ethuverazheise nobility, not the swiftest courier, either. But Csevet had already obtained permission from Edrehasivar to take several days away from court to visit friends in the borderlands. “As we are headed south, Serenity, might we bring the message to Count Nethenel ourself?” He did not mention that going there by airship under the emperor’s aegis would save him a few days’ travel, as well as a fair amount of coin. The benefit to Edrehasivar, of course, was that Csevet would return from his journeys all the faster.

His first look at Nethenee made him wonder how in all the gods’ names it had been able to afford its own mooring mast. Of course he’d known that the Nethenada had been the poorest of the nobility since time out of mind, well before the advent of the airship. But the manor was in little better repair than the decrepit hunting lodge to which His Serenity and his wretched cousin had been relegated. Other than a neat patch of dirt bristling with early vegetables and herbs, what passed for its gardens were a tangle of vines, ferns, and weeds. On the positive side of the ledger, as a year-round home it had been at least built far more sturdily than Edonomee. Csevet supposed the weather here was kinder than in the Edonara, too. He just hoped Nethenee was not moldy inside.

As he approached the front door it began to open, startling Csevet. One might open one’s door to a beloved friend or relative before they knocked, but in all other cases one waited for the knock, and the lower the rank of the visitor the longer they waited for one to answer. Out stepped a stocky young man of mixed elven and goblin heritage, wearing plain summer linens and whalebone tashin sticks. Csevet was startled yet again, but, he realized, Nethenel’s staff of servants was probably very small.

“Mer Reshema,” he said, bowing.

“Dost stand on ceremony with me now, Csevet?” Kozha Reshema asked, a grin in his voice. “I regret to inform thee I am unlike to become Osmerrem Nethenaran any time soon, no matter what is said at court.”

Csevet didn’t bother to stifle his laugh. “Good to see that thy dalliance with nobility has been no detriment to thy modest character.”

They embraced, perhaps for a fraction of a second too long. They had never become lovers when they were both in the fleet, as their schedules had been incompatible and each of them had had too many others clamoring for his attentions. However, Csevet thought, he would certainly not have thrown Kozha out of his bed for hoarding the blankets, and he would have wagered the sentiment was mutual.

“So what brings thee here?” Kozha asked, one hand remaining on Csevet’s shoulder. “I’d have thought hadst risen too high to run messages anymore.”

Csevet explained the circumstances as they walked into the dim cool of Nethenee’s receiving room. The manor was, indeed, as ill-repaired within as without, though it seemed clean enough at first glance. Meaning Nethenel retained at least one housemaid, or perhaps a kitchenmaid who doubled as housemaid.

“Kozha? Who is it?” came a voice from within. Then Count Nethenel stepped out from an interior room. Though his hunting clothes were well-made, they were at least ten years out of style and had been patched at both elbows and knees. He squinted at Csevet. “Are you not His Serenity’s secretary? What brings you to this godsforsaken corner of the Ethuveraz?”

Csevet gave him the half-bow that his rank accorded him. “Greetings, Count Nethenel. We have arrived from the Untheileneise Court with a letter from His Serenity to you.”

“Ah.” Though he kept his ears set, a nervous tension appeared in Nethenel’s ferretlike features. It did not take great intelligence to realize that the appearance of the Imperial Secretary rather than a bog-standard courier in Nethenee was an odd thing. “Please, tell us the news.”

Csevet produced the letter from his satchel and handed it to the count. As he had penned it himself for His Serenity, he had had no need to break its seal to learn what it read: that the crown was yielding full ownership of the Nethen Ford to the house that had stewarded it for centuries, meaning they would finally be able to charge tolls of those who crossed it.

Nethenel broke the seal and skimmed the brief letter quickly. His brows rose, as did his ears. “This is wonderful news! Kozha, take a look!” Kozha took the letter from him, skimmed it as well, and broke into another broad smile. “Thank you, Mer …” Nethenel began.

“Aisava, Count Nethenel. Csevet Aisava.” Csevet bowed to him again.

“Mer Aisava. May we offer you our hospitality?” Nethenel’s face was quite bright now with the news of his much-improved fortunes. “Nethenee is far less grand than the Untheileneise Court, of course, but we can certainly find you a place at the supper table and a bed for the night.”

“If it would be an imposition…” Csevet began. He had no objections to spending the night at Nethenee, but he wondered whether the count, in his current straits, could afford to host him. As it was never a good idea to expect hospitality from the recipient of a message, in his letter to the first friend he intended to visit he had written, _I may arrive on the fourteenth or the fifteenth, circumstances depending._

Nethenel waved his hand. “We think one guest will not empty our coffers, especially now that our credit has improved somewhat. Excuse us a moment.” He trotted back into the interior room.

“Has he any servants?” Csevet murmured to Kozha.

“Just the one maid,” Kozha replied in an undertone. “She’s stretched rather thin, but her house has served his for generations and she doesn’t wish to leave the area or her kinfolk.”

Said maid walked alongside Nethenel as he re-emerged into the receiving room. “Temer, Mer Aisava will be staying the night. Please settle him into a guest room, then prepare a third place at the table for supper.”

Temer, in her late twenties and of pure goblin heritage, curtsied in the old-fashioned manner. “Come with us, sir,” she said. Her local accent was strong.

Csevet followed her up the creaking wooden stairs to the second of Nethenee’s three floors. She opened a door off the hallway onto a small room with one bed, slightly wider than would accommodate one person. There was also a washstand well-stocked with soap and towels, and a low bookcase. “If you need anything else, sir, please ring the bell for us,” she said, indicating the bell-pull beside the bed. “The count dines early, so supper’s in half an hour.”

“We thank you,” Csevet said, giving her a quarter-bow. Flustered, she dropped him a quick curtsey and hastened away.

The room was a pleasant one. Its white paint was bright with the late-afternoon sun, its window over the meadows was open to let air in, and most of the heat seemed to have risen to the third floor. Temer, Csevet imagined, would sleep in the cellar in such weather. Or perhaps Nethenel was lax enough to let her sleep on the parlor sofa. Of a certainty, the man did not lay undue importance on ceremony. Or even due importance, Csevet thought, remembering Winternight.

Though one did not sweat much in the cool interior of an airship even in summer, Csevet changed out of his travel clothes and attended to himself at the washstand. He had not brought along other imperial silks, as he had anticipated that hospitality at Nethenee would mean taking supper in the kitchen with whatever servants labored at the estate. But he doubted Nethenel would be offended by his appearance at table in plain, new, crisp linens. After donning the fresh clothes, he took the little vial of sweetflag and bitter-orange oil from his satchel and dabbed it at his temples, his wrists, and the base of his throat.

Supper was hare that had been roasted — on a spit outdoors, so as not to overheat the house — then drenched in a peppered sauce, served with field greens and fresh bread and butter. “We shot the hare ourself,” Nethenel boasted, leaning back in his chair looking quite proud. His linen clothing was as casual as Csevet’s and Kozha’s, and both his and Kozha’s were considerably less new than Csevet’s.

“He’s a fine bowman,” Kozha said to Csevet. “Which is an excellent thing for the cellar, because we ourself couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

“We’ll teach thee someday,” Nethenel said around a mouthful of bread. “And how to trap and fish, too.”

Kozha snorted. “I’ve no desire to rise at four o’clock in the morning and crouch in a cold, wet field or alongside a river for hours on end waiting for my game to arrive, thank thee.”

“Ever the night owl,” Csevet said, taking a sip from his glass of barely watered wine. It was not the best of vintages, but it was at least as good as most of the drink he had swilled on his nights out while still in the fleet.

“Well, we do rise and go to bed a bit earlier these days,” Kozha said. Nethenel beamed at him, and Kozha gave him a fond smile.

Conversation mainly revolved around His Serenity, as it so often did everywhere these days. Nethenel asked if the new zhasan were “breeding” yet, oblivious to the resulting sidelong glance from Kozha. Csevet, his features composed, replied that it was too early for even the zhasan herself to know for sure. Talk then turned to the shifts in the political winds that Edrehasivar had brought with him from the west.

Csevet rather hoped Nethenel would not insert his well-worn boot into his mouth again with his opinions on any of these matters, as he did not wish to have to inform Edrehasivar of anything to Nethenel’s discredit. Kozha’s life had been no easier than Csevet’s, and he did not deserve to see his lover come to grief. To Csevet’s relief, the stupid loyalty of the Nethenada held in the end, and the count said not one word that could have been turned against him.

Dessert was as simple but delicious as supper had been: local berries in sweetened cream. Nethenel shoveled them into his mouth. Csevet chose to express his enthusiasm for the dish in words alone. Kozha ate only a few bites before pushing his dish away.

“Is’t not to thy taste, Kozha?” Nethenel said with his mouth full of dessert, frowning slightly.

“Oh, it’s delicious. But the gods did not favor me with a maidenly figure, Pazhis. I’d rather not have to let my trousers out again before they wear out.”

“Pity. Art very comfortable to lean upon,” Nethenel said with a gleam in his eye. “Very soft.” A drop of cream flew out from his lips onto the tablecloth.

“An you would both excuse us,” Csevet said, rising and pushing in his chair. “We have had a long day, and tomorrow will be even longer. We would fain unwind before sleep.”

“As it please you, Mer Aisava.” Nethenel spoke with an absence of mind that was less than appropriate toward a guest, especially a guest from the imperial household. Csevet was glad of it, however.

He walked back up the stairs to the guest room. As he lay his tashin sticks on the washstand and unbound his braids, he took a closer look around. The bookcase was old and worn; half a dozen red-backed novels lay on one of the shelves, which were otherwise vacant. Csevet wondered why he was even mildly startled that Nethenel would stock a guest room with such reading material. To be fair, he imagined Nethenee received few if any guests, and perhaps he should have been surprised that this room had not long since been repurposed for storage. The books and their shelf were as free of dust as the bed and washstand. Perhaps all but Temer had forgotten them, and she had long since come to view them as just part of the furniture.

Red-backed novels were not Csevet’s preferred reading material, had not been since the age of about fourteen. But there remained time to be killed before sleep, and he had not wished to tote books of his own all about the southeastern Ethuveraz and northeastern Barizhan. At random he chose one book — the spine read, he noted with a roll of his eyes, _The Courier’s Weighty Package_ — then kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed to read it. None of the pages, to his great relief, were even slightly stuck together. The quality of the story itself, on the other hand, was about what he had expected:

> _“Our word, courier boy. Thou art swinging quite the package,” Dach’osmer Chamenar said admiringly to Desharet. “Thy sack must be aching with the weight of it.”_
> 
> _Desharet blushed to the tips of his ears. He knew that couriers were oft propositioned, but at heart he remained an innocent farmboy, new to the debauched ways of the courier fleet. He was not even used yet to the scandalously tight fashions of Cetho, including courier leathers: they clung to his firmly muscled buttocks like a second skin, and they left little between his legs to the imagination._
> 
> _Dach’osmer Chamenar now looked down in that direction, and he licked his lips. “Indeed, boy, it must be a great strain for thee to be hefting all the delectable things contained in thy package. Wouldst care to make a few extra deliveries at our portals, that we could relieve thee somewhat of thy load?”_

Indeed, Desharet soon thereafter made the requested additional deliveries at Dach’osmer Chamenar’s front and rear portals. The “innocent farmboy” then provided similar services to the dach’osmer’s younger brother, the two noblemen’s solicitor, and an unrelated dach’osmer who happened to be in the solicitor’s office at the time. The author did not, Csevet noted, explain why a high-ranking lord would bring a courier he’d known for all of an hour (if that) along to his solicitor’s office, but one did not hold this genre of fiction to the highest levels of verisimilitude.

Desharet had returned to Chamenar’s estate and was receiving his own deliveries from the ostler of the stables and a stable lad, simultaneously, when Csevet’s ears twitched to the sound of a knock at the guest room door. Temer, he guessed, though the knock sounded rather bold for her. He lay the book down on the bed, rose, and opened the door. On the threshold stood Kozha, wearing the implacable mask of the courier the world over.

“In sooth?” Csevet asked, arching a brow.

“How dost even know what I’m about to ask thee?” Kozha demanded, the mask shattering in his indignation.

“Come in and close the door, and I’ll tell thee.”

Once Kozha had done so, Csevet leaned against the adjacent wall, arms folded. “Were it for anything respectable, thou or Nethenel would have sent Temer to knock. His wine cellar is likely as modest in quantity as in quality, so dost not invite me to a drinking contest, and I doubt he has sufficient coin at the moment for cards or dice, either. The only other form of evening entertainment I can imagine in this ‘godsforsaken corner of the Ethuveraz’ is fucking — either of other people or of livestock, and my _guess_ is that hast not come here to suggest the latter.” One corner of Kozha’s mouth turned up despite himself. Csevet concluded: “And art quite devoted to thy lover, so I cannot see thee propositioning me an he’ll not be present for the event, and especially not while art under his roof.”

Kozha chuckled, though he did not relax entirely. “Hast grown delicate and respectable in thine old age, or are the chaste habits of His Serenity rubbing off on thee?”

“Neither. I do, however, prefer to _fancy_ both participants in such an arrangement. With all respect to thy count, he does not strike my fancy.”

Kozha tilted his head wheedlingly. “Ah, don’t tell me never hast joined in on a bit of fun in a darkened room where couldst not tell one man from another.”

“Which is rather the point. I might have been … engaged with anyone from the late Varenechibel to a Cetho streetsweeper. Rather than being quite aware that one of them was someone in whom I’d no interest.”

“And me, Csevet?” Kozha asked plaintively. “Art not interested at all in me?” His orange eyes widened, softened. “I can pleasure thee greatly, if wouldst agree to pleasure Pazhis the while.”

Csevet could feel his cheeks and ears grow warm. While by sheer luck of timing he had never bathed alongside Kozha, he had heard from loose talk that his fellow courier had been quite generously endowed by the gods. What’s more, he was said to know how to use his gift optimally. The two were not always found in combination.

Yet … Nethenel. Ferret-faced, spindly, and as witless as an egg in a cup. Csevet had no idea what the count mustered in his trousers, but his instinct was that the man would have no idea how to ply it. Even with Kozha Reshema as patient teacher.

He tried for diplomacy. “I would not come between thee and the count—” He broke off to glare at Kozha, who was failing to suppress a snicker. “Know’st what I meant, thou overgrown schoolboy. I’ve been a point of contention between a couple before, and it’s not an experience I care to repeat.”

“Trust me, wouldst be no such thing. He finds thee pretty enough, for he has eyes in his head. But I am the one he loves and trusts. And wilt be gone in the morning, and he may never see thee again except on Winternights. A fond memory, nothing more.”

Kozha then stepped forward into the room, lifted Csevet’s chin with one hand, and brushed their lips together. Csevet had closed his eyes in anticipation, and thus he was caught off guard when Kozha seized one of his hands and pressed it against the front of his own trousers. Csevet’s eyes flew open, and though his mouth had suddenly gone dry he swallowed.

“What say’st thou now?” Kozha murmured.

Csevet took a few seconds to think. It was _not at all_ so he could keep his palm pressed over Kozha’s burgeoning cockstand a short while longer, certainly not. Then he said, “An I can take thee aft, I’ll take the count fore.”

Kozha grinned broadly at him. “Meet us in the study,” he said, then turned — then suddenly turned about again. “Oh — one thing I should warn thee of. Pazhis has … a taste for filthy talk.”

Csevet stared at him in disbelief, his ardor wavering. “Please don’t tell me it’s of the ‘Suck our cock, thou lowly courier’ variety?”

“Oh, no.” Kozha’s eyes widened. “He’s not like that at all.”

“Then why even bring it up? At least every other man speaks filthy in bed.”

“Er… well.” Csevet would not have believed it had he not seen it for himself, but Kozha was blushing. “Wilt see.” Then he shook off the hesitancy, smiled a lazy cat’s smile at Csevet, raked his eyes impudently up and down Csevet’s body once, and was gone.

***

Nethenee’s was a poor excuse for a study. It was lined with shelves, but most of those stood empty. Csevet wondered if Nethenel had sold off the books to keep himself solvent. The paneling on the remaining walls was worn, as were the furniture, the carpet, and the heavy drapes drawn over the single window. A single candle burned within a glass shade on a side table; Nethenee had no gaslights, Csevet had noticed.

“Ah, Mer Aisava,” Nethenel drawled in what Csevet guessed the count considered a seductive tone. “You look quite fetching with your hair down.” Csevet had considered rebraiding and repinning it before joining them in the study, but between the overall lack of formality at Nethenee and the evening’s agenda he’d decided it would be a waste of time and effort.

The count smelled of the cheap vintage he’d served with supper, which had ruddied his cheeks and ears. Behind him, Kozha leaned against a paneled section of wall, his hands in his pockets. He had also let his hair down, and it spilled over his shoulders in rich black ringlets. His light-grey skin was flushed crimson over his cheekbones — not with embarrassment now, Csevet would have wagered — and his sunset-colored eyes were rapt. Even in the dim light Csevet could see the outline of his cock beneath his trousers.

“Count Nethenel,” Csevet murmured, dropping his eyes. If Nethenel wanted to think he was playing the coy maiden, all to the good.

The count took a step closer to Csevet. In the plural he said, “Perhaps we could … be on less-formal terms with one another.” He paused, then added, “Csevet.”

“Perhaps,” Csevet said. Notwithstanding that it was Nethenel’s idea, his instincts refused to let him be the first to use informal pronouns with a noble of any kind.

“I am Pazhis to thee. And, I hope, more than that to thee as well, tonight.”

Csevet made himself raise his eyes to Nethenel’s and smile. _Don’t think about him. Think about Kozha pounding thee into the carpet._ Nethenel’s own smile broadened, and without further preamble he grasped Csevet by the collar and pulled him toward him.

The count kissed as terribly as Csevet had expected: wet and sloppy, his mouth reeking of the cheap wine and of unclean teeth. Ah, well, he had tolerated that much as a courier, and at least Nethenel had obtained his permission. He attempted to kiss the count back. But Nethenel apparently saw the act as a lower-risk form of dueling; Csevet was not certain for a moment whether the man was overcome by passion or seriously intending to pull Csevet’s tongue out by the roots with his own. He could feel Nethenel’s cockstand pushing against his hip. It was decidedly not as impressive as Kozha’s under his palm earlier. _Is he only half-hard? Is he too far into his cups?_

Csevet drew back and feigned a gasp; let Nethenel think he was merely short of breath. The count stared at him with dilated eyes, his erect ears quivering. “Art so lovely, Csevet,” he said, slurring his words a bit. “Wilt take off thy clothes and let me see all of thy loveliness?”

“Of course… Pazhis,” Csevet said, trying to keep his gaze focused on Nethenel but unable to keep it from drifting to Kozha against the wall. Kozha was stroking himself unabashedly through his trousers. His gaze went through Csevet like a newly forged sword through the waters of the quenching trough, and suddenly Csevet found himself far more eager to undress.

He did force his eyes back to Nethenel’s slackly rapt face. _Think of Kozha._ He undid the buttons of his shirt, then pulled it slowly over his head to let the hem creep up over his ribs and breast with their lean, light musculature. His ears and nipples tingled at the friction, and under Kozha’s sunlike eyes they began to burn as well. Csevet focused on Nethenel’s pointy chin as he eased his arms out of the sleeves, then folded the shirt and laid it on a nearby empty shelf.

As he kicked off his shoes he let his fingers play leisurely at the buttons of his trousers and arched his back slightly. Not a performance that would pass muster in the marnis brothel of Cetho, but enough to make Nethenel’s breath hitch. When the buttons were finally all undone, Csevet pushed the flaps back, exposing a swath of flat belly to the count’s drunken gaze, but did not hasten to work the garment down over his hips — until Kozha’s rough voice from beyond Nethenel said, “Get on with it.”

Csevet swallowed, then obeyed hastily. He wore no smallclothes beneath the linens, and his half-cockstand swayed as he crouched to gather up his dropped trousers and fold them atop his shirt.

“Merciful goddesses,” Nethenel whispered. “Art like something out of a painting.” It was the sort of praise one heard from drunken strangers in a tavern, and the sort of praise one rolled one’s eyes at. But Nethenel had spoken it reverently. He grabbed Csevet’s hands and pulled him to him again, and as he slobbered anew upon Csevet’s face he groped him from ears to nipples to thighs with all the enthusiasm — and all the finesse — of a fourteen-year-old.

Hoping that Nethenel had enough couth to kiss with his eyes closed, Csevet dared open his own to look toward the wall. Kozha had taken his prodigious cock from his trousers and was shuttling his fist up and down it — and just as Csevet registered it, Nethenel’s own fist closed around Csevet’s cock. Csevet moaned and his flesh swelled to fill Nethenel’s grasp completely, both things taking him by surprise. Nethenel moaned in response, and again to Csevet’s surprise the sound drew more blood into his cock.

Kozha then straightened up from the wall and began to move toward them, his face a study in hunger. “Csevet,” he said roughly. Surging desire contended with profound gratitude as Nethenel relinquished Csevet to his own lover. Kozha plied his tongue in Csevet’s mouth as well as he was said to know how to ply his cock. Said organ pressed hot and hard and wet against Csevet’s belly, and Csevet’s hand closing around it made Kozha groan into his mouth. When they parted for breath Csevet felt dizzy.

“Pazhis, wouldst like him to take thee in his mouth while watch’st me fuck him and make him moan around thee?” Kozha growled.

“Yes, oh, _yes,”_ Nethenel breathed. There was a dot of wetness at the front of his trousers now.

With another flicker of gratitude to Kozha, Csevet sank to his knees on the carpet. This was the easy part. Or at least he hoped it would be. He took his time unbuttoning Nethenel’s trousers, as he had his own, until he felt a light smack across the right cheek of his arse. “Didst not hear me tell thee to get on with it?” Kozha demanded. Csevet turned his head over his shoulder to glare at Kozha — then swallowed as Kozha hefted his dripping cockstand in his right hand. “Dost not want this inside thee already?”

“Hast a good point,” Csevet said hoarsely.

He made haste of the rest of the count’s buttons, then took him out of his trousers. Nethenel’s cock was no larger now than when he had pressed it into Csevet’s hip, but it was indeed fully erect. Mindful of Kozha behind him, Csevet did not tease at the slender bobbing shaft before him but swallowed it to the root. Though there was a tinge of sweat to it, it was mostly clean, to Csevet’s great relief. Nethenel groaned.

Then Csevet shuddered at the touch of a broad, well-oiled finger tracing the cleft of his arse. _Kozha must have had a vial in his pocket,_ he thought as the fingertip rubbed round and round his hole.

“Lik’st the way he sucks cock, Pazhis?” Kozha purred, sliding the finger a few inches into Csevet and crooking it back and forth. Csevet’s hips began to jerk, and Nethenel’s cock in his mouth stifled his moan into a hum.

“Mmmmmmph….yes.” Nethenel’s hands were in Csevet’s hair, mussing it. “Do you all learn how in the courier fleet?”

“Of course.” Kozha continued to work his finger inside Csevet. “Those who can’t when they enter the fleet are taught by their fellows.”

Csevet began to cough around Nethenel’s cock, and despite Kozha’s assiduous attentions his own cockstand flagged slightly. _Damn thee, Kozha._

The count looked down at him and smirked. “Am I choking thee, Mer Secretary-Whore?” he asked smugly.

 _I see why Kozha would not explain himself earlier. And I could have taken thee in my_ navel, _thou deluded idiot. Three times over._ But Csevet merely shook his head no. Then his attention was commanded by the soft pop with which Kozha pulled his finger out, and by both Kozha’s hands clamping down on Csevet’s hips as Kozha butted up against him.

Csevet was hardly virginal, but even so, and even though Kozha had oiled his cock well, the broad head stretched Csevet considerably. He grunted around Nethenel’s flesh as he relished the hot burn of it. _An wert shoving that siege engine up_ me _every night,_ he thought as Kozha began to work it inward, _I’d be parading thee around court, too._

Nethenel uttered a lascivious groan. “Kozha, is his arse as hot and tight and skillful as his mouth?”

“Quite so,” Kozha sighed as he seated himself fully within Csevet.

The count reached down to fondle Csevet’s ears, lightly stroking his fingertips over the sensitive skin of their backs. The touch made Csevet’s cock jump against his belly. “Little rabbit, dost enjoy being spitted so?” Nethenel crooned. “Perhaps Kozha’s prick and mine own will touch each other inside thee.”

 _Thine education was as sorely lacking in matters of anatomy as in those of comportment._ But between the caresses to his ears — Nethenel was actually not bad at that, at least — and Kozha’s cock beginning to slide back and forth over the sensitive spot within him, Csevet found himself less able to care about Nethenel’s brainless utterances. He sucked harder on the count’s diminutive shaft, which provoked a stream of semi-coherent obscenities focused on the sexual organs and habits of various deities. He managed to keep the suction up even as the steady plunging of Kozha’s cock in and out of his arse drove Csevet’s nose into the musky white curls of Nethenel’s pubis.

“Cstheio’s pendulous tits… fuck, shit, fuck, I’m not for long… _ahhhhhhh,”_ the count groaned as Csevet’s mouth filled with seed, hot and bitter. Csevet swallowed it and wished for nothing more than another swig of cheap wine as Nethenel pulled out and staggered backward into a bookcase.

“I’m not far behind thee,” Kozha grunted from behind Csevet, speeding up his thrusts. “And thou, Csevet?” His hand suddenly closed about Csevet’s cock, working him hard and fast. Csevet replied only with a long, drawn-out moan and short, sharp counterthrusts against Kozha’s hips.

Kozha’s movements grew ever shorter and more violent; the way his cock rasped against the nerves within Csevet was now almost painful in its intensity. Csevet lost himself in the discomfort, letting Kozha use him rough and hard, fucking the smells and the tastes and the blitherings of Nethenel out of his mind. His climax hit him like a brick wall, sudden and stunning, and he was shouting words he wouldn’t remember later as he spilled freely over Kozha’s hand. Then Kozha groaned a final time and shuddered deeply.

A few seconds later he said dazedly, “Stay just like that,” and slipped out of Csevet. It took Csevet a concerted effort to remain on all fours, rather than collapse onto the shabby carpet; considering some of the ancient stains that decorated it and that he himself could use another wash, he wasn’t certain why he was bothering. A moment later he felt linen being dabbed up and down his arse-cleft, blotting up the seed that oozed from his deliciously abused hole. “Canst rise now. Need my help?”

“I believe I can manage,” Csevet said, surprised at how dry he was able to sound. He’d no sooner gained his feet than a loud snore rent the air of the study.

Nethenel had slid all the way down the bookcase to the floor, where he sat with his trousered legs widely apart and his spit-wet cock — even tinier, now that it was flaccid — on display. His eyes were tightly shut, and his mouth was wide open. He snored loudly again. Kozha cringed.

“Should I take that as a compliment?” Csevet asked mildly.

“Mightst as well,” Kozha sighed. He had mopped himself up with the same handkerchief and was now buttoning his flies. “Wouldst excuse me for ten minutes? I should not let him spend the night like this.” He crouched, picked up Nethenel, and slung him easily over his shoulder.

“Certainly,” Csevet said, watching Kozha carry his unconscious lover out of the study and listening to the snores diminish as they moved out of earshot.

He dressed again, then found a decanter and cups on a shelf he hadn’t spotted before. The wine was far less mixed than it had been at supper, but it chased the taste of seed out of his mouth nicely, and at this juncture of the evening he cared not at all that it went to his head. With a sigh he settled himself into an armchair and awaited Kozha’s return.

After so many months of dealing with courtiers he’d expected “ten minutes” to be a euphemism for half an hour. But, punctual as all couriers were, Kozha did indeed return ten minutes later. “I see hast found the wine,” he said, settling himself heavily into the armchair opposite Csevet’s.

“Help thyself.”

Kozha shook his head. “Many thanks, but I had my fill at supper, as with the berries and cream.” He tilted his head back and half-closed his eyes, a faint smile hovering on his lips.

Csevet knew the question in his head was a deeply ill-mannered one to ask. But Kozha had just fucked him, and he had just sucked off Kozha’s lover, and Temer was probably abed, and so no one else was around, and the wine was starting to hit him hard…

“Kozha… wouldst forgive me for asking a very impertinent question?”

Kozha opened one orange eye and regarded Csevet levelly. “Art going to ask me what I see in him, art not?”

Csevet’s face and ears heated. “I am sorry. It is truly not my business.”

Kozha waved one broad hand. “I’ll answer thee nonetheless: he is very kind.”

Csevet did not reply. Kozha, taking that as permission to continue, opened his other eye. “Remember’st a year and a half ago, how the cold weather waxed and waned all winter? It played merry havoc with my constitution. When I arrived on the doorstep of Nethenee from Cetho I was bright, hot, and shaking. Pazhis was appalled that I’d intended to continue on to the Corat’ Dav Arhos while so fevered. He ordered me to retire to the same guest room thou’lt sleep in tonight. It troubled me a bit … I did not know him, nor his intentions.” Csevet thought of Eshoravee, and his mouth twisted as he nodded. “But they were perfectly honorable. Temer tended to me for the next two days — a fine woman, she is, and a competent nursemaid. Pazhis promised he’d vouch for me if Captain Volsharezh or my later recipients were angered by the delay. Of course, no one wants a courier to deliver a bronchine or other ailment along with his message, so ultimately I suffered no repercussions.

“On my way home I stopped here again to thank him, with a bottle of good wine from Anvernel as a gift of gratitude. He was greatly taken aback, insisted there was no need to reward him for common decency… which is not so common, as know’st well.”

“Indeed,” Csevet said wryly.

“That said, he did not refuse my offer to share the bottle with him. I had suspected from my earlier stay that he was marnis, but I was not certain until we began to drink together. Then, well…” Kozha smiled his lazy feline grin again. “I am sure thine imagination can fill in the rest.”

Again, Csevet nodded. They sat in silence for a moment. Then Kozha continued, “I’m sure know’st this, too, but the Nethenada are not so much nobles as yeomen who happened to stumble into a title. They’re regarded as such by the rest of the nobility.”

Csevet snorted. “It’s an ancient house, no less noble for its poverty. The bloodline goes back at least fifteen hundred years. Not as old as the Tethimada were, or as the Rohethada or Ubezhada are, but the Nethenada preceded the Virenada, the Ormevada, and a good half-dozen other noble houses of great standing off the top of my head.”

Kozha’s glance was tired and knowing. “And if we go back far enough, we all sprang from Cstheio’s tears after they fell upon the earth, highborn and lowborn alike.”

“I take thy point.” Csevet took another pull of wine, seeing no reason not to. He had negotiated much more complex routes than a single staircase with much more drink in him than he had now.

“So… he is not minded to lord it over couriers, or servants, or anyone else.” Kozha’s smile was soft this time. “In fact, he has been remarkably generous to the people living on Nethenadeise lands, even though until tonight he’s been nearly as poor as they are. As much of the game he’s shot, trapped, or fished has gone to them in times of hardship as it has into the cellar. He and Temer work the garden jointly, and because it is usually just him and her here, she takes the bulk of what it produces to her kin. When her father was ailing, she told me, Pazhis paid the doctor’s bill, I know not with what. He’s never told me any of this, mind thou; I’ve heard it from Temer and from a man in a nearby village who is not of her house.”

He fell silent again, and in silence he and Csevet sat a while. Finally he said, “I should join him in bed.”

“Canst sleep through that racket?”

Kozha chuckled. “One learns.” He rose from his armchair, walked over to Csevet, and lifted Csevet’s chin in one hand. His kiss was as chaste as it had been in the guest room — chaster, as now he did not seize Csevet’s hand to lay it upon any part of him.

“I will remember tonight fondly,” he said, smiling down at Csevet with Csevet’s chin still in his hand.

“As will I,” Csevet said with a lopsided grin.

“Canst manage thine own way up the stairs, or wouldst like to be carried up as well?”

“My thanks, but I should be fine. ‘Twould be quite a novelty, though: the first time a man would have borne me into my bedchamber _after_ fucking me stupid… but not before.”

Kozha burst out laughing. He dropped his hand from Csevet’s chin, but as he quieted he took a moment to tuck a loose strand of hair back behind Csevet’s left ear. “Wilt ever pass through the Ford again, think’st thou?”

Csevet widened his eyes of a purpose. “I thought I was to be only a fond memory, nothing more?”

That knowing smile again. “Were our circumstances different…”

“An they were,” Csevet agreed softly. “But they are not, for whatever reasons the gods have.”

“The old, sad story.” Kozha leaned down to brush his lips lightly against Csevet’s again. “I’ll be lying in as usual, and I suspect Pazhis will be nursing quite the headache all morning. An I do not see thee again before Temer turns thee out, may thy travels be easy and joyful. Sleep well, friend.”

“And thou as well,” Csevet said, watching Kozha’s stocky form disappear through the door of the study. He wondered, idly, if it were as comfortable to lean upon as Nethenel had said, before shaking his head and chuckling to himself. He finished the cup of wine and, pleased that he did not stagger at all, made his way upstairs to his chaste, narrow bed.


End file.
